


Blood Brothers

by raving_liberal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alive Dean Winchester, Character Death Fix, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, Fix-It, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27680491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raving_liberal/pseuds/raving_liberal
Summary: The great weight of living drops from Dean’s shoulders. Sam picks it up.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	Blood Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted this to be something longer, and I think it could easily turn into the full post-season 15 retirement fic I've got in my head. I did NOT have this beta-read by anyone, so if it's chock full of errors, I have nobody to blame but myself.
> 
> John Winchester had AB+ blood. If Mary had O neg, both boys could be B neg. Odds are slim, but when aren't the Winchesters utterly improbable?

Dean feels himself going. He’s at peace, he realizes. He’s actually at peace. This wasn’t how he planned to go, but it’s still right, nonetheless. Everything fades to white – bright, pure white. The great weight of living drops from Dean’s shoulders.

For a moment, Dean sees Bobby seated in front of the Roadhouse with beer in his hand. Dean takes a step towards him, but everything fizzles apart.

Dean is surrounded by white light again, too bright to look at. He can’t open his eyes against it. He feels warm and heavy. For a second, his eyelids flutter, but the bright light forces them closed again. Something is in his mouth. He feels like he’s choking. That’s weird, right? He knows it should be weird, anyway, but he can’t think about it that deeply. He’s just so tired. He earned his rest, didn’t he?

He drifts.

“Dean?”

Who’s that? He doesn’t know that voice. What does she want?

“Dean. Agent Kripke? Can you open your eyes?”

No, thank you. He’s fine with just drifting.

“Dean. We need you to open your eyes.” 

No. He’s resting. He’s allowed to rest. Sammy said he could go.

Sammy.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice this time. Okay. Dean’s still fine drifting, but if someone’s going to talk to him, he’d rather it be Sam. “Dean. Please wake up. Please open your eyes.”

Dean would rather not, because he’s feeling pretty great not having to worry about things like having a body and opening his eyes, but Sam sounds upset. Drifting is harder when Sam is upset. Dean begrudgingly cracks his eyelids, only to be blinded by the white light. He hisses in pain and closes his eyes again. 

“Turn off the light,” Sam says to… well, whoever else is there, probably. The lights go off. “Dean. Hey. The lights are off now. Can you open your eyes?”

Dean only opens one eye this time. Instead of painful white light, his entire field of vision is filled with Sam’s huge, worried face looming over him. Sam’s eyes are red and the lines in his forehead are deeper than usual, with lank strands of hair sticking to it. He needs a shave and a shower.

“You look like shit,” Dean says, or tries to say, anyway. What comes out is just a raspy, “You.”

“Yeah, Dean, it’s me. I’m here,” Sam says. He clasps one of Dean’s hands in both of his huge paws. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you go. I know I told you that you could, but I lied, I guess. I couldn’t let you.”

“Glad to have you back with us, Agent Kripke,” the woman says. Dean can’t really see her well; she’s a dark-haired blur in blue scrubs, which probably makes her a doctor or nurse. She’s calling him by the wrong name. It makes sense, though he isn’t sure why. What matters more is where he is and why he’s there.

“Where?” is all Dean manages.

“You’re in intensive care at University Hospital. You’ve had surgery. Several surgeries, actually, so please try not to move too much,” the nurse-doctor woman explains.

“But you made it,” Sam says. His eyes tear up. Dean tries to bring his hand up to pat Sam’s face, but the weight and tangle of tubes and wires are too much for him to deal with. Sam looks alarmed. “Hey, just try to stay still, alright? You’re being held together with glue and staples right now.”

“Sammy?” Dean asks. “How?”

The nurse-doctor smiles and adjusts some of his wires and tubes. “Your partner saved your life. Agent Singer performed CPR for almost twenty minutes until the ambulance arrived. I’d say you owe him a drink once you’re out of here.” She chuckles at her own joke. Dean watches Sam’s face go through a series of expressions like an awkward, uncertain dance.

“You… CPR?” Dean asks Sam.

“Come to think of it, you owe him two drinks. Maybe more. He also gave you a field transfusion, which may have done you even more good than the CPR. I don’t know if you understand how rare it is, both of you having B negative blood and ending up as partners in the FBI. What are the odds?” The nurse-doctor shakes her head. “I’d call it a miracle.”

“Sam,” Dean chides.

“Guess that makes you blood brothers,” the nurse-doctor says. “He’d have given you another pint during surgery if we’d let him, but it was pretty clear he’d already donated more than he should’ve.” She clucks at Sam, shaking her head, before directing her voice at Dean again. “Now, don’t you worry about Agent Singer here. We got some fluids in him, a little glucose. He’s going to be just fine.”

The look on Sam’s face suggests he understands how fine he’s not going to be once Dean has the strength to kick his ass for pulling a stunt like that, but Dean isn’t saying that in front of the nurse-doctor lady. Not that he really could, with his throat as dry and sore as it is. He tries to clear his throat and winces; Sam winces back.

“Here,” Sam says, sliding one hand under Dean’s head and gently lifting it enough to meet the tiny plastic cup of water Sam brings to his lips. Dean takes a tiny sip. The cold water stings when it hits the back of his throat, but that doesn’t stop him from taking another small sip, then another. After what feels like ten minutes, the cup runs out of water, and Sam eases Dean’s head back down onto his pillow.

“Good,” the nurse-doctor says. “I’m going to finish my rounds now. Press the button if he needs anything before I’m back.” She seems to be addressing Sam, so Dean doesn’t look for the button. He feels too tired to worry about buttons, anyway. His eyelids weigh five pounds each. 

“You want more water?” Sam asks. Moving his head takes most of Dean’s remaining energy, but he manages a tiny shake. 

“Saved my life,” Dean says. He means to scold Sam with it, really, but Sam just looks so damn relieved to see Dean awake. He doesn’t have the heart to make Sam feel bad about that just yet.

“I tried, Dean,” Sam says. “I tried to do it without you. I couldn’t. I lasted two whole minutes.”

“S’ok, Sammy,” Dean says.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger.”

“S’ok,” Dean repeats. Sam carefully takes Dean’s wire-and-tube covered hand and squeezes it. Dean squeezes back with his last little bit of strength. They’ll talk about all of this later. He might have it in him to be angry with Sam tomorrow or a week, a month, a year from now. In this moment, Sam looks so grateful for Dean being alive. He looks wrung out and worn down and utterly relieved. Dean has never wanted Sam to hurt, so for now, this is okay. 

Dean notices the pain, then, running right through him, a deep ache in his muscles and bones. He’s sure he’s on morphine, because even noticing the edges of that pain is enough to make him shake; he doesn’t want to imagine what it would feel like without the good stuff. His chest pulls and itches. _Glue and staples_ , Sam said. Dean tries to touch his own chest, underneath all the wires and sensors, but Sam catches his hand and stops him. 

“You’ll hurt yourself doing that,” Sam says. “It’s― they had to crack your chest. The rebar, it― it got you in the heart.” His voice breaks on the last word. He puts his hands up to his mouth to muffle a sob. “The right ventricle, they said. Barely missed your aorta. I don’t know how they did it. I thought you were gone. You were in surgery for hours, and all I could think was that it was my fault. My fault for not letting you go.”

Dean sighs. Trust Sam to blame himself for _saving_ Dean’s life. “‘M here, Sammy,” he says, and it isn’t an indictment, but a mere statement of fact. Whatever choices Sam made, whatever Dean asked of him, he’s here now, and he can’t be angry about it.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam says. His whole face crumples into ugly, snotty crying. Dean wishes he could hug his brother, but the best he can do is squeeze his hand. 

“Saved me,” Dean says. “‘S what we do. Save people.”

Sam laughs through his tears. “Yeah, it’s what we do.”

“Tired,” Dean admits. Sam immediately starts fussing over him, pulling up the thin hospital blanket and trying to tuck Dean in, like Dean used to do for him when they were little.

“You get some rest,” Sam says. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

“Love you, Sammy,” Dean says, sliding back off into sleep to drift again. He barely processes Sam’s response, but it still makes him smile.

“Love you, too, big brother.”


End file.
